


Till Your Tongue Finds the Words

by larkscape



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 11:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: “Yura,” says Victor when the silence stretches too long, hoping to rebuild the lighter atmosphere. Or at least something a touch kinder. “Do you want to join me for dinner when we get back? My treat. We can go to Percorso and get the sea bass again; I know you liked it last time.”Yuri keeps his back turned, and his answer is a clipped, “No,” as he stuffs his spare jacket into his suitcase.Victor is adept at understanding Yuri Plisetsky's contradictions, or so he likes to think. But near the end of Victor’s final skating season, Yuri starts acting distant, and all Victor’s Yuri-language prowess does him no good because he can't figure outwhy.





	Till Your Tongue Finds the Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written last summer for Legacy: A Victurio Anthology. Check tumblr or twitter for details; the zine is full of amazing work!
> 
> Set in an AU where Victor and Yuuri never connected at the Sochi GPF. Title from Jesca Hoop.

 

Yuri doesn't say the word  _ love, _ Victor knows.

No, Yuri doesn't say it, but he shows it in other ways — ways that Victor has learned to read over the years they've known each other. Yuri's not exactly subtle, no matter what he may think.

Outwardly, he's all growl and spit and ducking out from under Victor’s arm, but then he shoves a bag of homemade piroshki at Victor and sullenly demands that he get the hell off the ice and eat something already, he's been at the rink all day; or he yells about how someone needs to deal with his hair for his free skate since Lilia isn't here and he can't do it himself and then says  _ dammit, Victor, get over here, I expect it to be perfect _ with unwavering trust that Victor can make it so. He pelts Victor with dirty socks and it means he's worried about him. He ignores Victor's texts and it means he wants Victor to show up in person.

He shoves his face into Victor's neck in the back of a cab and bites until Victor bruises and it means  _ hold me; _ he grinds himself harshly against Victor while they have a moment to themselves in the rink lockers, all fire and filthy intent, and it means  _ I need you slow and soft but I won't ask for it, just take me home with you and unmake me. _

It's a language of contradictions. Victor's gotten good at reading it, especially in the last few months. But sometimes, he wonders if he's reading it  _ right. _

 

“Yura,” says Victor, “would you like to—”

Yuri cuts him off with a searing kiss, the sort that consumes Victor like fire, as he uses Victor’s shoulders to push the hotel room door the rest of the way shut.

Guess that’s a no on the sightseeing. Victor’s not complaining.

“Can I—” asks Victor between kisses, and he’d be laughing a bit if Yuri’s impatient focus wasn’t so hot, “can I at least take my coat off?”

“Shut up,” says Yuri as he yanks it off himself. Once the way is cleared, he sucks a path of red marks along the line of Victor’s neck — nothing that will stay beyond a couple minutes, Victor knows, since they both have to compete this weekend, but enough to leave a warm sting and drive him wild. His coat crumples on the floor.

They’ve just arrived in Turin for the European Championships and there are beautiful buildings to see and restaurants to try and shopping to do before the competition starts, and all Victor can think about is getting his hands on Yuri’s trim waist and pulling him down to the bed. Any bed. Right now. He wants to keep him there every moment they’re not on the ice, kiss him pink and breathless, swallow him down and leave him resplendent on the covers in the aftermath of pleasure.

He’s so lovely. Blond hair, green eyes, long limbs, and that grumpy expression that Victor loves to melt away with the touch of his hands. Those delicious, insistent lips pressing sparks against his skin.

“Ah, Yura,” says Victor, shuddering, when Yuri finds a nipple through his shirt and pinches.

“Take this off,” groans Yuri, grappling with Victor’s shirt buttons. “Right now,  _ fuck.” _

“Yours, too. Mmm, kiss me again?”

Yuri does so, impatiently shedding clothes as his mouth wreaks havoc on Victor’s sense of reason until they’re both naked and hard and stumbling toward the closest mattress, and all that’s left is burning need.

“Want you, Yura,  _ need _ you, come on, need to feel you inside me, just fuck me already— god I love you so much, my ice tiger, my—”

Yuri shoves two fingers in Victor’s mouth, growls, “Shut  _ up,” _ with blazing eyes, and doesn’t let him speak again.

 

For some reason, Victor can’t sleep.

It’s a strange condition. Usually he has no problem falling asleep anywhere: on planes, on floors, curled atop someone else’s suitcase. He can normally drop off any time, and this weekend is his last time competing in the European Championships and he wants to make the most of it. He needs rest. But tonight of all nights, sleep eludes him.

The whole lot of them are here. Yakov has his own room — the privilege of age and of having as many championship skaters as he does — and Georgi is rooming with Piotr, the 16-year-old making his senior debut this season. Mila is down the hall, likely annoying the hell out of Sonya, who really ought to know better than to rise to her bait by now.

Victor and Yuri have left the second bed in their shared room untouched. Victor plans to shove the beds together and throw the blankets across both before they leave, since Yakov flatly refuses to let them have a single queen and Victor is nothing if not petty, but until then they've put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and are thoroughly enjoying the closeness that comes of two grown men burrowing into a full mattress. They don't need the extra room. In sleep at least, Yuri is warm and unguarded, curled around Victor's back and clinging like a limpet.

It's been over three years since the spring when Yuri bullied him into staying in competition, since he called the program Victor made for him garbage and in so doing rekindled Victor's competitive fire.

(“You really are in a slump, aren't you?” Yuri had said. “Or did you do it on purpose? I'll never win with this!” And yes, he’d had a point. Admittedly, Victor was distracted at the time, thinking more seriously than he ever had about retirement, weighing the merits of haunting Christophe’s family’s villa for six months at loose ends versus annoying Yakov by hovering at the rink when he wasn’t competing, but that’s no excuse. The program was terrible. No cohesion whatsoever, no artistry, no  _ soul; _ it had felt like extruded Nikiforov Product, not an original. Yuri was right, and his spitfire rage was just the wake-up call Victor had needed. He’d redone the program for Yuri, then choreographed another two shorts for himself just for the hell of it, and thoughts of retirement receded again by the time he’d made the third one, which took him through the season and won him another world record.)

It's been half a year since Yuri finally bullied him into bed and found the fire there, too.

Yuri breathes an almost-snore against the back of Victor’s neck and shifts closer, arm heavy over his waist. Oh, how Victor wishes he could join him in slumber, but sleep remains frustratingly out of reach.

Maybe that has something to do with the way that, after they’d finally made it to the bed earlier, Yuri wouldn’t let him speak, not one word, until they were both exhausted and sweaty and limp. Maybe it’s because of the way that Yuri rolled over to check his phone almost as soon as he’d pulled out and only petted Victor’s hair distractedly when Victor’d whined about it.

Alone, none of that would have meant anything was wrong, but there’s been a strange distance growing between them, even when they’re pressed so tight together that their skin heats and sticks.

Victor tries not to let it bother him. It’s the middle of the season; Yuri’s under a lot of stress. He’s fighting against the weight of Victor’s final season (not to mention the secrecy surrounding that little tidbit), and against the encroaching figure of Kenjirou Minami, who’s come back from a poor showing last year in a stunning turnaround under Yuuri Katsuki’s tutelage. Plus, his grandfather’s health is taking a downturn again.

Yuri’s got a lot on his mind. It makes sense that he would be a bit self-absorbed right now. And even though Victor tells him he loves him and Yuri never says it back, it's okay; Victor says 'I love you’ enough for the both of them.

Still, it’s a long while before Victor finds sleep.

 

“What the hell was that?” demands Yuri as soon as Victor steps off the ice.

“What was what?” asks Victor, trying for nonchalance. The performance was not his greatest, he knows; lack of sleep and the ache in his spine that’s been building the last two years are conspiring against him today. He’s angry at himself, at his body for failing him — at a lot of things, really, the ravages of time chief among them. But he does his best not to let it show. He’s the focus of every news camera right now.

“You flubbed a jump.” Yuri looks absolutely livid, which tells Victor he’s worried and handling it poorly. Thank goodness he's at least keeping his voice low. “You flubbed a  _ triple flip, _ Vitya. Dammit, if you think that just because this is your last season you can  _ coast, _ I’ll—”

“Nothing’s wrong, Yura, I just didn’t sleep well. Mistakes happen. Not even I can be perfect all the time.” He smiles his best reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it up in the free.”

Yuri leans in to hiss in his ear. “Tonight I’m going to wear you out so thoroughly that you sleep like the  _ dead. _ I refuse to skate against anything but your best.”

That’s the finest news Victor’s heard all day.

 

Yuri sucks him off twice that night in a drawn-out, teasing affair that leaves Victor boneless and aching and utterly out of breath. He's so attentive that Victor can almost believe he’d imagined the distance of the other evening. Victor returns the favor in between rounds, and when Yuri comes back down from his post-orgasmic high he looks honestly affronted, which kindles a new flare of warmth in Victor’s chest.

Only Yuri. Only Yuri would be mad that his partner would dare to impinge on his blowjob rights for the evening.

Victor loves him  _ so much. _

 

The tactic works. Victor has no trouble nodding off in Yuri's embrace and he does indeed sleep like the dead. When he wakes to his alarm the following morning, he feels years younger.

Yuri, who, judging by his state of dress, has been up for at least an hour, chucks his phone at Victor's, and both phones clatter off the nightstand. Victor's is still chiming at top volume and buzzing merrily away.

“Shit, your alarm is annoying,” grumps Yuri. “How many times have I told you to change that thing?”

“Obviously not enough.” Victor stretches languorously and continues around a yawn. “I'm sure it'll stick eventually. Come back to bed?”

“No way. I already showered this morning; I don’t want to do it again. Get your lazy ass up if you want any hope of overtaking my score this afternoon.”

That’s not how Victor works and they both know it. He’s never had trouble with sleeping until just before his warm-up and subsequently taking home gold medals. In fact, sometimes he thinks it helps his performance — the height of well-rested. But Yuri’s grumpiness is well-worn, and what he really means is that he wants Victor to join him for breakfast.

That’s a sentiment Victor can get behind.

Still, he makes a show of stretching again and then collapsing dramatically back into the pillows.

“Do you think Yakov will murder me if I have sausage for breakfast?”

“You are a dirty old man,” says Yuri, making a poor attempt at covering his smile and throwing the leopard-print sneaker he’s holding. He misses Victor by a wide margin.

The surprised chuckle that bubbles out of Victor is genuine; that’s not what he’d meant, but now that Yuri mentions it…

“Please?” Victor puts on his best puppy eyes and blinks winsomely. “Kotyonok, you know I love how your sausage tastes.”

“You’re terrible, Vitya, oh my god,” says Yuri. “And don’t call me that.” But he’s laughing as he says it, so Victor counts it as a success.

Once Yuri finally cajoles him out of bed, they make their way down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. The only sausage on offer this early in the day is English breakfast, which he wouldn't have broken his competition diet for anyway and which Yuri eyes with an exaggerated, wary disgust that has Victor muffling snickers in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Yura, does the sausage offend you?” he asks, full of fake solicitousness. “Or perhaps it’s just the wrong flavor?”

“I will stab you with this fork,” says Yuri, his cheeks coloring. “The only wrong flavor here is  _ you.” _

Victor’s laughter lasts all the way to the rink.

 

True to form, Victor makes up the lost points in the free skate, though his margin is narrower than usual. (The twinge in his knee, a memento from the ACL injury he sustained early in his senior career, is getting worse again, which only adds to his certainty that he won’t be competing next year.) His program has a higher base difficulty than anyone else here — even Emil Nekola can’t compare, despite his numerous quads — but Yuri’s isn’t far behind and he likes to add the raised-arm flourishes that earn him extra points, because Yuri enjoys making everyone work for it.

When Yuri steps onto the ice, Victor’s world goes still.

He’s so… powerful, delicate, commanding and entreating at once. He’s a different person when he’s skating. This choreography is a combination of Yuri and Lilia’s talents, and the star power behind it shows in every graceful extension, every step and spin and jump. Yuri has only grown stronger and more beautiful as the years have passed.

The second half of the program starts with a quad-triple-triple combo that’s been giving Yuri trouble all season, and Victor’s stomach tightens in sympathy as Yuri builds up speed. But then he looks directly at Victor with fire blazing in his eyes and launches into a perfect execution. He barely touches down before he’s airborne again, and again. The crack of his blades returning to the ice after the last jump sends a thrill through Victor; he wants to cheer but he’s frozen to the spot, hypnotized as Yuri effortlessly glides into a camel spiral, a step sequence, another jump. He’s poetry; he’s a conduit for the music. The movements flow out of him like water.

Yuri is a worthy rival. A worthy heir. If Victor has to pass on the mantle, there is no one more fit to shoulder it than Yuri Plisetsky.

But god, he doesn’t want to give it up. Ending a career is bittersweet.

The music draws to a close as Yuri takes his final position, and the crowd goes absolutely wild. There’s no doubt in Victor’s mind that he just watched a winning performance. He meets Yuri outside the kiss and cry, where Yuri’s still trying to catch his breath.

“That was incredible, Yura,” he says, beaming. “Amazing.”

Yuri smiles at him, too tired for pretense, but Yakov cuts in before any more can be said, pulling Yuri toward the bench with an arm around his shoulders.

“You’re not his coach, Vitya,” he says over his shoulder. “He doesn’t need you hovering.”

“But Yakov, I want to hear his score!”

“You’ll hear it with everyone else.”

Victor refuses to leave, though, so he gets the pleasure of seeing Yuri’s face when the announcer says, “231.86, a new world record!”

Yuri just won gold.

Victor— isn’t upset, really; Yuri’s been nipping at his heels the last two years and has beaten him to gold twice before, so this defeat isn’t too surprising, although a clean sweep on his last season certainly appealed to his sense of artistry. Not to mention his pride. But Yuri’s  _ face… _

His expression holds a depth of triumph Victor’s rarely seen there, as if Yuri won not only Europeans but also Worlds and had personally fixed his grandfather’s back on top of it all. He’s positively incandescent. Victor can’t tear his eyes away.

 

Victor may not have announced the end of his competitive career officially, but he’s done nothing to quell the rumors, either, so the post-competition press conference is a minefield of retirement questions he refuses to answer. Even if this isn’t his last season, though, everyone knows that Yuri will be the next to take up the cloak of Russia’s Shining Star.

“Mr. Plisetsky, what’s it like to follow in Victor Nikiforov’s footsteps?” asks someone on the side of the room. Victor can’t read the nameplate from up here.

“I’m better than he ever was,” says Yuri immediately, glaring out at the sea of cameras. “I’m not following in his footsteps, I’m making my own. Stop acting like I’m the second coming of Nikiforov. I’m sick of it.”

“He can only hope to live up to my legacy,” says Victor with a cheeky smile. “He’s still young and inexperienced, but maybe one day he’ll step out of my shadow.”  _ Play it up, _ he thinks at Yuri.  _ They want the rivalry. Drama sells. _

Yuri already knows how this game works.

“You wish, old man. I’ve already got more gold medals than you did at my age.” He juts his chin out at Victor in challenge. “You’re old news. Who has the legacy now?”

In reply, Victor just smirks at him, and then Yuri sends the expression right back and Victor can only hope the cameras aren’t picking up on the lascivious intent sparking between them. He’s going to pay Yuri back in orgasms for every single flirtatious barb.

He loves their interplay, just a little mean and all the more fun for it — and oh, he’s going to miss this when he retires.

 

“You want to go out with a bang?” asks Yuri as they pack for the trip home. “You'll have to get through me first.” He shoots Victor a cocky expression. “I'm going to crush you at Worlds just like I crushed you here, and you'll go back to St. Petersburg with your tail between your legs.”

Victor’s had this conversation before, though. “You can’t entice me into staying in competition  _ again, _ Yura. That trick is played out.”

At that, a strange look flits across Yuri's face, but Victor can't read it before it’s replaced by a mutinous glare.

“That's not what I'm doing,” says Yuri sourly. “I just want you to fight like you mean it; if this is your last season, I want you at your best. No more of this ‘didn't sleep’ shit or whatever. I'm going to take you down fair and square.”

“And who says you'll win?” asks Victor with a teasing grin. “Sure, you got gold here, but I was only a handful of points behind. Worlds gold belongs to me.”

“My _ new world record _ says I'll win.”

“I've had a few of those, too, in case you've forgotten. Past performance is not always an indicator of future success.”

Yuri scowls. “Oh, fuck off. You're just scared to lose to me twice in a row.”

“Sure, Yura. Keep telling yourself that.” But Victor’s only barely paying attention to what he’s saying now; there’s something off.

Without another word, Yuri turns back to packing, leaving Victor to study the line of his shoulders. He seems… more grumpy than usual, not as lighthearted behind the verbal sparring. A little too intense. What changed? He won gold and pushed Victor down to silver; he should be happy.

Ignored and denied other options, Victor returns to his own packing.

“Yura,” he says when the silence stretches too long, hoping to rebuild the lighter atmosphere. Or at least something a touch kinder. “Do you want to join me for dinner when we get back? My treat. We can go to Percorso and get the sea bass again; I know you liked it last time.”

Yuri keeps his back turned, and his answer is a clipped, “No,” as he stuffs his spare jacket into his suitcase.

That doesn’t leave much room for interpretation. Yuri’s more verbose when he’s avoiding saying what he means, but a flat no usually means just that. Victor holds his tongue.

 

No, Victor hadn't imagined the distance between them, for all that it seemed to have disappeared for a while. Perhaps he should have pushed Yuri about it when he had the chance. He spends the plane ride home keeping company with a novel because Yuri is slouched grumpily with his earbuds in the entire time and refuses to acknowledge Victor when he pesters him.

The ease of the last couple days has vanished; now it seems like Yuri wants nothing to do with him. Victor isn’t sure how to read the silent treatment. He's beginning to feel used, a little, and he’s accustomed to that from sponsors, from guest coaches and clinics looking to bank on his name, but from Yuri? It’s not like him. Not like  _ them. _ What he and Yuri have is oceans away from that sort of mutually beneficial arrangement.

Isn't it?

Of course it is. He knows better than to doubt; the thought is unworthy of him. Yuri likes their rivalry just as much as Victor does, but it’s not the only part of Victor he’s interested in. He’s just in a bad mood. It’ll pass.

Victor leans across the armrest and onto Yuri’s shoulder, then picks up his book again.

 

The mood persists back in Russia. Yuri is mad perpetually now; he's mad at the rink, he's mad when he comes over to Victor's apartment, he's mad when they have a rough quickie in the rink bathroom, he's mad when Victor takes him to Percorso after all and then takes him home and teases him open for the better part of an hour before burying himself inside. He's mad when Victor tries to cuddle him on the couch and he's mad when Victor leaves him alone.

Victor's beginning to think he's lost his Yuri-to-Normal-Human dictionary. Nothing is working.

So he falls back on his oldest habit: pretending like nothing’s wrong. If he doesn’t acknowledge Yuri’s foul mood, maybe it’ll fade away. It’s obvious there’s nothing he can do, anyway, so why fight it so hard?

Yuri still regularly comes over to have sex in Victor’s oversized bed and poach in his kitchen and watch television. Victor gives Yuri’s favorite throw pillow pride of place in the center of the couch, stocks up on his preferred brand of tea, and generally does his best to make the place inviting. (Which, honestly, isn’t much. Victor prefers his spaces minimalist — good for practicing new choreography in the living room, bad for making it feel homey.)

But Yuri’s kisses run hot and cold. Sometimes they’re frantic, desperate, like this the last chance he’ll get; sometimes they’re punishingly angry. And sometimes they feel mechanical, as if he’s already got one foot out the door and is just keeping up appearances. He’s distracted and distant, both here and at the rink. He doesn’t lean casually into Victor’s space anymore.

Did Victor do something wrong? But  _ what? _ Or is it something else entirely?

There’s no way of knowing because Yuri won’t talk. So Victor pushes it down and chatters enough for them both — filling up silence is a skill of his, along with ignoring problems — but something cold is curling and twisting inside him.

He can’t stomach the thought that Yuri might be preparing to leave.

“Hey, Yura, you don’t have plans this weekend, do you?” he asks one Thursday evening, determinedly bright, and then continues without giving Yuri a chance to reply. “Great! I’ve bought tickets for the Mariinsky Theater this Sunday, and we have dinner reservations at Terrassa afterward. This season’s production of The Sleeping Beauty is supposed to be spectacular. I’ve often found inspiration at the ballet—”

“Knock it off, Vitya.”

“You don’t want to go? Really, it can be a great source of ideas for your future programs.”

_ “My _ programs—” says Yuri, ignoring his question. “You don’t— just stop. What’s been going on with you lately? Stop acting weird.”

“What? No one’s acting weird.” And if anyone has, it sure as hell hasn’t been  _ Victor. _ “Oh! I've got an idea. Let’s see if we can make that blazer from the Dior shoot fit you. I think the color would look lovely with your eyes.”

He goes to take Yuri’s elbow and lead him to the bedroom and its walk-in closet, but Yuri jerks away.

“Yura?”

“I don’t want to try on your damn jacket, Vitya,” he snarls, harsh.

“What, you don't like it?”

“You’ve been doing that fake smile thing again; don’t think I haven’t noticed. Just tell me why! Be honest for once.”

Victor blinks. After everything else in the last weeks, that is just a step too far. “Honest?” he says, bitterness seeping into his tone. “That’s rich, coming from  _ you.” _

“You know what? Fine. Keep your secrets, old man.” With a glare, Yuri spins around and stomps toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch along the way. “And your ballet tickets, too. I’m going home.”

Victor doesn't try to stop him.

 

At the rink the following day, Yuri ignores him entirely. They’ve only got another two and a half weeks before Worlds, so his laser focus on training isn’t unusual, but Victor feels the distance between them like a rubber band about to snap on him. He’s anticipating the sting.

He texts Yuri on Sunday around noon to remind him of the ballet, just in case he’s changed his mind.

Yuri never answers.  _ Come over, I want to see you in person, _ Victor thinks, except his Yuri translator is broken these days and when he shows up at Yuri’s place, no one is home.

Victor takes himself to the ballet alone and, for the first time in a long time, finds himself unmoved by the performance.

 

At least Yuri is speaking to him again by Monday. Well, for a given value of ‘speaking.’

_ “Potya _ is more graceful than you,” says Yuri as he watches Victor straighten up after landing a triple axel, “and she fell off the couch yesterday.”

Mila snickers and doesn’t bother trying to hide it; Yuri smirks at her, and Victor feels a smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth, too. It’s a strange thing to feel affection for someone insulting you.

“Yura!” shouts Yakov. “Stop trying to get a rise out of Victor and focus on your own skating.”

“I am focusing!”

“Oh, really? It doesn’t look like it. That footwork was inexcusably sloppy. Run the whole sequence again.”

Yuri mutters something under his breath that makes Yakov’s heavy eyebrows lift in surprise.

“Aw, Yakov,” says Victor, “let the kitten sharpen his claws. It’s not like he can do much damage.”

Yuri howls with rage. Yakov glares in Victor’s direction and the expression is so familiar that it sends a pang of preemptive nostalgia through him. How many more times will he get to see Yakov looking that exasperated? The season is almost over.

“You’re not above edge drills, Vitya. Don’t test me.”

“Yes, Coach Yakov,” he replies easily. “Whatever you say, Coach Yakov.”

Inside, Victor is cautiously pleased. Yuri is returning to form, reasserting their usual dynamic. With any luck, everything will be back to normal by Worlds.

But Yuri disappears entirely when he goes for lunch, and he doesn’t come over to Victor’s place after practice, and Victor remembers how nothing seems to mean what it’s supposed to anymore. It’s not that they haven’t gone this long without seeing each other off the ice before — competitions always take precedence; they both understand that, and it’s part of what makes them so well-suited.

It’s just that this time is different, and Victor misses him.

 

Three days before they leave for Worlds, there’s a knock on Victor’s door.

It’s Yuri. There’s no one else it could be, really.

Now that he's finally here, Victor is seized with the sudden, petty urge to slam the door in his face. Now? After absenting himself for a week and a half without a word of explanation, he shows up  _ now? _ But Yuri just stands there on the threshold and looks at him, and Victor finds he can’t turn him away.

“Come in,” he says, holding the door open. Yuri walks directly into him and shoves his forehead into Victor’s chest like a cat.

“Yura?”

He just presses harder. Victor steps back and Yuri follows, so Victor swings the door shut and walks backward toward the living room with Yuri attached to his chest like a remora.

“Are you going to say anything?” asks Victor when they’ve almost reached the couch. Yuri slowly twists his head  _ no _ and his hair tickles under Victor’s chin.

“I’ve missed you,” admits Victor quietly.

In an instant, Yuri comes to life and grabs Victor’s sides, holding him in place, using him as a pillar to prop himself up. Then he steers them around the couch and down the short hall toward the bedroom.

Victor has a moment of deja vu when Yuri backs him up to the bed and pushes him down  — except this time he doesn’t need fingers in his mouth to tell him to be silent. He lets Yuri climb over him and moves easily when Yuri’s touch works its way under his clothes. Yuri seems determined to keep them as close as possible; he attacks Victor’s buttons like they’ve personally offended him and runs his hands over every stretch of bare skin he can find, keeping his face tucked into Victor’s neck the whole while.

When they’re both finally naked, Yuri goes still for a long moment, nestled between Victor’s thighs with his arms locked around Victor’s shoulders. Victor tilts his head slightly so he can kiss his ear.

“Vitya,” whispers Yuri, taut with the strain of some emotion Victor can't identify. “Vitya, Vitya.”

“My Yura,” offers Victor quietly in return. Yuri clutches him tighter.

With a determined twist of his hips, Yuri worms them up the bed until they’re in range of the nightstand where Victor keeps the lube, then fumbles blindly for the drawer. The tissue box on top is a casualty of Yuri’s quest, falling to the floor because Yuri refuses to lift his face from kissing the soft place under the hinge of Victor’s jaw to actually look at what he’s doing. Victor doesn’t mind that in the slightest. He caresses Yuri’s shoulder blades to feel the muscles working.

There’s a small eternity in the time when Yuri isn’t touching him, isn’t focused on him, but then those fingers come back and reach between them and they’re deliciously slick when they find their way inside. Victor arches under Yuri’s weight and gives himself over to the sensation with a breathless moan.

Yuri works him open fast, just this side of too much, and Victor can feel the impatience in every move. He’s just as impatient himself, though. He’s missed Yuri too much, needs him too badly. He rocks his hips on Yuri’s fingers, determined to get him deeper, closer,  _ more. _ He needs it. He needs Yuri, needs all his fight and his kisses and whatever desperation has gotten into him.

When Yuri slips down just enough to line himself up, Victor whines through his teeth.

“Yura—”

Yuri pushes in and Victor is swept away.

 

“Sorry,” whispers Yuri afterward, when the lights are out and Victor can't see him, like he needs the cover of midnight’s dark to say it at all.

Yuri doesn’t elaborate, but Victor knows what he means, or at least he’s pretty sure he does: Yuri has missed him, too. He didn’t mean to cause hurt. Victor’s happy letting the rest go unsaid.

He runs his fingers through Yuri's soft hair where it spills over his chest as they drift in the quiet darkness.

 

That night had seemed an auspicious beginning to a turnaround, but then they arrive at their hotel for Worlds and the two of them seem to exist in opposite shifts; Yuri is asleep by the time Victor comes back from dinner, and he’s already gone when Victor wakes in the morning. They barely exchange words during practice. At least they’re still sharing one bed.

“You’re going down, old man,” Yuri tells him the morning of the short program. He’s got that fire in his eyes again, like he intends to set the world ablaze and stand triumphant over the smoldering remains. It’s so good to see it there.

Victor smiles and drawls, “I’d like to see you try.”

And oh, does he try. Yuri’s short program is nearly flawless, and he and Victor are neck and neck in the standings; his free skate the following day is only a few points behind his record from Europeans. They still call him the ever-evolving monster and it's never been more true. This year has been his best yet.

When it’s his own turn on the ice, Victor pours himself into the music, breaks himself apart and puts a piece of his soul into each jump and spin— but he’s tiring. This is his last competition for a  _ reason, _ and Yuri is on top of the world right now.

It’s not enough. Victor can feel it even before he finishes his skate; it's not enough to win. He has to watch Yuri climb to the top of the podium while he stands on the second level once again, and yes, he’s immensely proud of what Yuri’s become, but he’s disappointed in himself. This was his last chance, his last opportunity to win another gold medal, and he’s failed.

Still. Silver is worthy, and he can retire secure in the fact that he gave it his all. That’s not a small thing.

He makes the announcement at the end of the press conference. Yuri glares at him the entire time, and if Victor didn’t know better he’d think he looks betrayed, but he never says a thing and the flight home is once again spent in stony silence.

When they get back to St. Petersburg, the news is in every Russian headline —  _ Victor Nikiforov Retires: End of an Era. _

By the following morning, Yuri is gone.

 

Gone. Without a word. Victor sits on his couch and fumes so he doesn’t cry. He hardly ever cries, but Yuri has always known how to get under his skin and now he has the tools to pierce to the heart. The season is over and Victor's whole  _ career _ is over and on top of it all, Yuri has vanished.

Sometimes that boy is so selfish.

As it turns out, he’s in Moscow, which Victor only finds out through instagram because Yuri won't answer his texts. That last part is normally a signal for  _ show up where I am, I want to see you in person, _ and Victor would be on the next flight except that Yuri's in _ Moscow, _ where his grandfather lives, and with the way things have been lately, Victor's not sure he'd be welcome. He's not feeling up to the bright cheer he'd usually put on, and the last thing he wants is to drive Yuri even further away.

In the most recent photo, Nikolai is looking hale and hearty in the company of his grandson. Yuri wears his biggest, most genuine smile.

The sight drives home to Victor how long it’s been since Yuri's smiled like that for  _ him. _

 

“I was wondering if you’d ever show up,” says Victor in an icy tone when he opens his front door. Yuri looks something in the vicinity of contrite, but Victor’s not feeling very forgiving.

“Vitya—”

“I shouldn’t even let you in. You couldn’t have said something before you left? But no, bratty Yura gets what he wants when he wants it and damn the consequences.” He’ll probably regret saying that later but it feels so good to get it out now. He’s been stewing since the end of Worlds.

It’s been a long two weeks.

“There was something I had to do,” says Yuri firmly.

“Sure, traipsing off to Moscow when you— when I—”

Yuri visibly loses his patience. He shoulders his way inside and slams the door. “Fuck you and all your flippant bullshit, Vitya. You act like it doesn’t even matter! Just take things seriously for once in your damn life!”

“What am I not taking seriously?”

“Grandpa was in surgery! You were  _ retiring _ and he was going under the knife again and I couldn’t—”

“Oh,  _ Yura.” _ Now Victor feels like an asshole — the biggest asshole. All his righteous anger deflates. Yuri never mentioned any surgeries on instagram. “Are you all right? Is  _ he _ all right? He seemed fine in the photos you posted.”

“Yeah,” sighs Yuri as he toes off his shoes, “he’s doing well, but he’s not as young as he used to be and every time it’s riskier. He’s got a lot of scar tissue around those vertebrae now.”

“I wish you’d told me.” For a lot of reasons. “I could have come with you; I would’ve wanted to be there for you both. I love Nikolai.”

The dismissive noise Yuri makes is eloquent. “You barely know him!”

“Yura, how long have you been skating with Yakov? I’ve known him for  _ years. _ Besides, he’s your grandfather. Of course I love him.”

Yuri laughs mirthlessly. “You just love everyone, don’t you?”

“I— what? No? I don’t understand what you’re trying to—”

“You say that to everyone! You tell the fucking  _ waiter _ you love him! How the hell am I supposed to know it’s any different when you say it to me? I know what I want and it isn’t some half-assed last hurrah from a skater leaving the sport.” The words spill out of Yuri like a dam bursting, or something festering now lanced and draining. Finally. Is  _ this _ what’s been bothering him? “Do you even know what you’re going to do? Where you might go?”

He looks angry and scared and  _ glorious. _ He’s everything Victor never knew he wanted, even now when Victor’s still reeling and hurt, and he’s been hit with that realization countless times before but it stabs him in the chest every single time. He says the only thing he can say in the face of it.

“I love you, Yura.”

Yuri slumps suddenly. Victor catches him around the middle, holding him close, and Yuri clings right back. He’s so precious, every part of him — his fight, his fire and his ashes, all the jagged, uncertain pieces of him left over after his rage burns out tucked away and kept safe in Victor’s arms.

“…I don't want to hear it if you don't mean it.” Yuri’s voice is low, quiet. A little desperate.

Victor tips Yuri’s head up with two fingers under his chin, so he can meet that green gaze directly when he says again, “I love you, Yura.” Against his own better judgement, sometimes, but he does. He brushes a kiss over the corner of Yuri’s mouth and continues. “The threat of loss is frightening, isn’t it? Makes us do silly things, makes us pull away when we should be holding tighter. That’s what all this between us has been about, right? You’ve been worried about the future? I should’ve seen.”

“I’m not worried, I just…” But Yuri doesn’t elaborate.

“Before, you told me you wanted honesty, so I’ll try to be honest.” It’s uncomfortable, but he’ll do it. Yuri needs to hear it. Victor needs to say it, too; so much of this mess makes sense now and he needs to get it out. “You feel too open, don’t you? Like you could get hurt too easily? But Yura, that goes both ways. You could hurt me, too. You  _ have _ hurt me. You found a part of me I'd thought was gone forever and you brought it back, and then you stopped talking to me and you— you  _ disappeared _ like that—”

Yuri’s eyes are welling up. His hands fist in the back of Victor’s shirt. “Is that why you were…? Fuck you,  _ fuck _ you for making me feel like this. Vitya. Don’t go.”

“Not going anywhere, tigryonok,” says Victor, tightening his arms. He’s feeling a little watery himself. “I thought  _ you _ were leaving. I don't know what my retirement will look like any more than you do, but I know I don't want to do it without you.”

_ “Damn _ it, Vitya. You. I can’t—” Yuri surges forward and crushes their bodies together, and Victor can feel the effort he’s putting into controlling his breathing, so he pets gently down his back and waits. Lets them both rebuild a bit. It’s the only thing he can think to do; this conversation is laying them too bare, and Victor’s not great at this part at the best of times. He just… needs to hold on for a while. Needs to have Yuri here in his arms where he can’t slip away.

Finally, Yuri pulls back a little and laughs — thin, but definitely a laugh. Victor rejoices inside.

“You and the stupid pet names. I don't know why I put up with you.”

Which means he loves it. “Yes, you do,” counters Victor.

Yuri rolls his eyes and says, “Well, the sex  _ is _ pretty great,” with his eyes still a bit too shiny because he is a ridiculous, contrary creature, and Victor is smitten all over again. Yuri is allergic to feelings. It’s the cutest thing Victor’s ever seen.

“Don’t worry so much,” he says, tucking Yuri’s hair back. “I still need to make sure you’re fulfilling Russia’s skating dreams properly now that I’ve left competition, don’t I? That’s no small task. It might take years.”

“You’re a narcissist,” says Yuri with a tiny smile. “I’ll do a better job of it than you ever did.”

“I notice you didn’t say  _ no.” _

“I already told you not to go, didn’t I?” The words are quiet and probably not as irritated as they were meant to sound; in their wake, Yuri turns his cheek to Victor's shoulder and falls silent. Victor presses a kiss to his temple and so misses the change of expression that precedes Yuri murmuring, “Help me with next year’s programs.”

“Yura!” Oh, yes, he  _ does _ want Victor to stay, just as much as Victor wants to. “Of course! If you really want to impress the audience, you need the Nikiforov touch.”

Yuri tilts back and levels him with an unimpressed stare. “Nope, I take it back. I don’t need you.”

That is a flat-out  _ lie; _ Yuri’s definitely back to normal. There’s nothing else for Victor to do but grab every squirming part of him that he can reach and smother it in kisses.

“Get off me, you asshole!” shouts Yuri around a smile he can’t quite hide.

“You need me,” sings Victor, giddy. “You want my help. Mmm, you’ll wow everyone, I promise.”

“Nope, shut up, shut  _ up.” _ He shoves Victor backward toward the couch.

“Hmm? You want me to choreograph the  _ sex?” _ asks Victor playfully. “That’s something I’ve never tried before, but you know how I love surprises. Sure, let’s do it.”

“I hate you, you insufferable dickwad.” But Yuri’s still laughing, and it’s obvious what he really means.  _ I love you; don’t leave. _

Victor all but trips on the edge of the couch as Yuri keeps walking him back, and Yuri follows him down, adjusting them both until they’re stretched out and tangled together along the length of the cushions. Yuri nuzzles into his collarbone. His voice is muffled when he speaks.

“Grandpa told me to get the stick out of my ass and actually talk to you about— you know. Feelings and shit.”

_ “Nikolai _ said that?” Victor laughs with delight. “Now I really wish I’d been there. I’d pay good money to hear that in person.”

Yuri pops up to glare at him. His hair is sticking up a little on one side, and the sight of it sends a rush of warmth through Victor’s chest. “Not in those words, no,” Yuri says. “Who do you think he is? But that was the gist of it.” He drops his forehead back onto Victor’s chest like he’s trying to hide there. “Vitya, I… Fuck. I don’t know how to…”

“It’s okay, Yura. I already know; you show your love all the time and I think I’m pretty good at speaking your language. WIll you come up here and let me kiss you?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says to his shoulder. “Yeah, all right.”

Victor smiles. “I love you, Yura.”

Yuri climbs up his body and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him some more, and Victor’s head is resting on the wadded-up blanket and it’s probably going to give him a neck ache but that is a minor annoyance in the face of this sweet assault. He keeps one hand in Yuri’s hair, combing through it as an excuse to hold him in place, and lets the other hand rove down his back to knead his rear. Yuri makes a pleased noise and rolls his hips down.

“I told you that you show your love for me all the time,” says Victor. “Will you show me right now?”

The kisses stop. With exaggerated slowness, Yuri’s eyes blink open. “Vitya,” he says, “that is the single cheesiest line I’ve ever heard you use.”

“But the question is: is it working?”

“…Goddammit, yes, it is.” The glare Yuri attempts is weak and breaks apart almost instantly. Victor grins, bringing both hands to Yuri’s ass so he can grope with purpose.

“Show me how much you love me, kotik.”

“Every time you call me a dumb name,” says Yuri with a snarl that holds no actual malice, “I'm going to bite you.”

“Yura,” says Victor, gleeful and unrepentant, “kotyonok, my fierce little ice tiger, you ought to know that’s very far from a deterrent.”

“I know.”

“See, I knew you loved it!”

“No, I hate it.” Yuri’s expression is determinedly flat. “I hate it so much.” Despite his words, he’s working his hips against Victor’s in a slow grind.

“Liars don't get blown on my couch, tigryonok.”

Yuri nibbles on Victor’s neck — not bites,  _ nibbles _ — and perhaps Victor should ask for it harder because he knows Yuri knows how to make him scream, except it feels very nice just like this.  _ Very _ nice. Victor hums happily and curves his neck into Yuri’s attentions.

“That's fine,” says Yuri when his mouth is free again. “I didn’t want a blowjob anyway. I want to ride you.”

“Ooh! That’s even better than what I had in mind. I don't stash lube out here, though, so we'll have to go to the bedroom.”

Yuri glares at him, half annoyed and all turned on. “I’m not letting you up from this couch,” he says.”We’ll make do.” He taps two fingers to Victor’s lower lip.

_ “Ah. _ So we will,” agrees Victor with a heated smile. He flicks his tongue against the pads of Yuri’s fingers, then draws them into his mouth. Yuri makes the most gorgeous expression of bliss when Victor sucks.

“Pants,” gasps Yuri. “Vitya, you— take your pants off.”

Victor lets the fingers slip off his tongue. “You’re lying right on top of me, kotik; I can’t reach. No, wait, where’s my bite? I called you a cute name!”

“I’m saving them up.” Yuri squirms around enough to get them both unzipped and unbuttoned, then shoves only until Victor’s waistband is around his thighs, though he kicks his own pants and underwear off entirely. When he flattens out over Victor again, their bare cocks touch and Victor moans. And yet—

“You don’t want me naked?”

“Changed my mind,” says Yuri, rolling his hips, grinding them together. “I want you just like this. Want to see you get all messed up, still in your clothes.”

Oh, that sounds fantastic. Yuri has the best ideas. Which includes this one: he drags his hand up Victor’s chest, his neck, over his jaw, and offers his fingers again, and Victor eagerly resumes sucking on them.

After a time both too short (Victor loves watching Yuri go slack-jawed with pleasure from his tongue) and too long (every moment spent with Yuri’s fingers in his mouth is a moment not spent buried inside him) Yuri finally draws his hand away. He holds Victor’s gaze as he reaches back. Ever helpful, Victor kneads his hands into the flesh of Yuri’s delightful ass and holds the cheeks apart for him.

Victor watches with fascination as Yuri’s brows draw in; he can see the moment Yuri’s finger dips inside by the change of expression. Mmm, he needs to be helping with that. He brings one hand up to his mouth and thoroughly wets his first two fingers while Yuri eyes him hungrily, then follows the line of Yuri’s arm until he finds the place where Yuri’s fingers are working their way inside and traces the stretched edge of his hole.

“Another?”

_ “Fuck _ yes.”

As Victor presses gently at the rim, Yuri spreads his fingers slightly, making a space for Victor to slip in. He’s hot inside, and the saliva is only barely enough to ease the way, but even the simple feeling of Yuri clenching on his finger is making Victor’s cock throb.

“Yura—”

“Mmm. I’m—  _ ah— _ oh fuck, Vitya,  _ more.” _ Yuri shudders in his arms as Victor presses deeper, and Victor seals their mouths together.

Yuri writhes, moaning into the kiss. Victor could do this forever. The warm, supple weight of Yuri’s body holding him down on the couch is the best thing he’s felt in ages. Then Yuri breaks their mouths apart to lick messily over his own palm and reaches between them, and the squeeze of his wet hand on Victor’s cock is the new best thing.

With a broken little whine, Yuri eases his fingers out of himself, taking Victor’s finger along, too. He plants his face in Victor’s shoulder and shifts his hips up, folding his knees along Victor’s sides and scooting forward until he can fit the tip of Victor’s cock to his loosened hole. His breath is hot on the side of Victor’s neck.

Victor strokes down his back and tries desperately not to buck into the pressure before Yuri’s ready.

“We need more—” says Yuri, and groans. “More spit. Get yourself wet, Vitya; I can’t move.”

Immediately, Victor swipes his tongue over his hand as wetly as he can — his mouth is dry from panting, his skin burns everywhere they touch — and snakes his arm under Yuri’s torso to spread saliva over his cock. Yuri whimpers when Victor’s wrist grazes his cock, when his knuckles brush the insides of his thighs.

“Now?” asks Yuri, shivering.

_ “Yes. _ Yura. Please.”

Yuri sinks down and Victor sees the cosmos expanding behind his eyelids. It’s a slow descent, heavy with friction and heat and  _ Yuri, _ and Victor can only trap Yuri’s shoulders to his chest and try to breathe as he is gradually consumed by starfire.

By the time Yuri finally bottoms out, Victor has lost the ability to form words. All that escapes him are hitching, wordless moans. His hands dig into Yuri’s back.

Then Yuri starts to move.

Victor could get lost in the circling of Yuri’s hips, that incredible heat, the tight squeeze of his hole, the wet kisses he’s smearing over Victor’s throat and jaw and cheek. Victor turns his head and captures those roving lips, inhaling Yuri’s stuttering gasps and returning his own. He thrusts tightly, controlled and sharp, and Yuri groans and demands, “Again.”

So Victor obliges. Yuri feels  _ so good _ around him, and he missed him so much, and this feels like a homecoming long overdue. He seizes Yuri by the thighs and drives upward in short jolts, more grind than thrust; Yuri makes the most wonderful noises in response.

“Yura,” says Victor, because his lips won’t shape the words to beg for Yuri’s mouth again.  _ ”Yura.” _

Yuri knows what he wants, though, and pours himself back into the kiss like they never stopped, immediately deep and insistent. Locking his knees around Victor, he pries one grasping hand from his thigh to drag it to his cock in a blatant demand. Victor instantly capitulates. He jerks Yuri’s length as he fucks into him and Yuri whines, thin and broken.

“Ah— Vitya, I’m—”

He’s achingly beautiful when he’s about to come. He’s beautiful all the time, but this is a special kind of beautiful, one for Victor’s eyes only: Yuri is flushed, dishevelled, breathing hard with his hair all over the place and his face scrunched up with pleasure from Victor’s touch. It’s breathtaking; it’s a gut punch of love and lust and longing, that he could be the one to make Yuri look like this. Victor licks into that slack mouth and twists his wrist and pushes as deep as he can get, and with a cry, Yuri spills all over them both.

Watching Yuri come apart on his cock sends Victor right over the edge, too. He clings to Yuri as he empties himself deep inside him.

They collapse together. The room is thick with the sound of their breathing. Victor holds Yuri close and scatters slow, tired kisses all over his face.

Eventually Yuri shifts, sliding carefully off of Victor’s cock and resettling on top of him with his legs stretched out again. There’s going to be a wet spot on Victor’s pants and possibly the couch, and there’s already one on his shirt, and Victor does not care the least bit. He’s got Yuri here in his arms where he belongs; everything else is a tertiary concern at best.

With a lighter heart than he’s had in months, Victor clasps one arm around Yuri’s waist and finger-combs the worst of the tangles from his hair with the other hand. Yuri leans into the touch with a quiet murmur.

The couch is narrow for two people not absorbed in driving each other to distraction, but they make it work; nobody falls off, at least, and Victor gets to play body pillow for a sleepy Yuri.

“I love you,” says Victor to the top of Yuri’s head, warm and soft and pleased.

“Mmm.”

“And you love me.”

_ “Mmm.” _ Lower this time, almost annoyed. Almost.

Victor doesn’t need to hear the words in return. Yuri’s got his arms draped around him and he keeps running his fingertips over Victor’s skin in hypnotic patterns, and Victor knows how to translate Yuri Plisetsky.

“But really, take me with you to Moscow next time,” he says, grinning cheekily. “I need to thank Nikolai for talking some sense into you.”

“Fuck you very much,” groans Yuri.

“Sure! Whenever you want, kotik; I’m still waiting for my bites. Probably not under Nikolai’s roof, though,” he adds thoughtfully. “I’m not sure he’d appreciate the noise.”

Yuri shoves his face under Victor’s chin and says, “I hate you,” in the fondest and most exasperated of tones.

Victor smiles.

 


End file.
